


Like I Should

by Myrinea



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Angst, Firelord Zuko (Avatar), Hurt No Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Maybe - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:15:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26694343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrinea/pseuds/Myrinea
Summary: The war ended two years ago. Zuko is Firelord. He has to prove that he is capable—prove that his country is able to change. But he is tired. And alone. So very alone. He wants his Uncle. He wants a friend. He wants to converse with someone who is not paid to attend to him or set on pushing the Fire Nation into yet another war. He is alone and he wants all that he cannot have.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	Like I Should

Dawn creeps up Zuko’s eyelids far too quickly. His head roars. He curls his toes against the roof shingles. _Five more minutes._ He draws a deep breath and tucks his hands into the crook of his knees; it is not a proper meditation position, but he is too tired to care. A choked laugh catches in his throat. _Too tired_. He thought he was tired during the war—chasing Aang and wasting away sleepless nights while staring at the same maps over and over again as he looked for whatever was left of his Honor. The unspoken word tastes like ash. He curls tighter, clenches his toes until they ache. If his guards know where he is, they are polite enough—or scared enough—not to mention his nightly escapes.

Weak tendrils of sunlight inch toward his feet. He can waste a few more minutes before climbing back through his bedroom window and pulling the guise of Firelord on for yet another day. He opens his eyes and peers, blearily, over the palace wall. The Caldera is beginning to stir. Shop doors crack open to let in a fresh breeze. The soft of scratch of sweeping brooms echoes up to the palace roof. If he turns his head to the right at the perfect angle, he can almost hear the hustle and bustle of workers preparing for long days on the wharf. The sun peers over the horizon like an orange bobbing in a bowl of water. _Time’s up._ Zuko sighs and forces himself to the edge of the roof. He swings himself through his open bedroom window to land on stiff legs. His gaze automatically searches each corner of his bedroom: his sheets are still rumpled, one blanket half hanging off the corner of the bed from his hurried departure and need to get out, out, out; drafts for repatriation agreements, border treaties, and trade routes loom over his desk; his semi-formal robes hang from the back of his desk chair.

He peels off his nightclothes and hangs him in his armoire. His chest aches. Purple and green bruises garnered during last week’s assassination attempt spread down his left side. The attacker was smart enough to come from his left side—and stupid enough to think he would be unprepared. If he had not spent five years training to circumvent his blind and deaf side, he would be dead. If he had not left the Caldera and joined the Avatar, he would be dead. If he had not left Iroh behind in Ba Sing Se, his uncle would still be beside him. If he had not refused to fight in the Agni Kai all those years ago, Ozai would not have sent him on a fool’s errand. He stops the train of thought with a rough shake of his head and reaches for the knives Mai left him before joining Suki and Ty Lee on the boat bound for Kyoshi island. He straps soft leather holsters to his left thigh and each of his wrists, carefully tucking a knife into each before hiding his weapons beneath the Firelord’s heavy robes. Two years and he still feels like drowning beneath the bright red fabric. _Red like blood_.

A knock on his chambers’ door makes his jolt. He straightens his sleeves, “Come in!” His voice has more of a rasp than usual, but he can’t be sure if its from the dry anxiety building in his throat or endless nights of choking back screams. Tashi slips into the room with a smile, “Good morning, Firelord Zuko.” She plucks the Firelord’s crown off of his bedside table and steps behind him without waiting for an answer. He surrenders himself to her deft hands and resists the urge to left his eyes close. She tugs a brush through his hair and twists it into the traditional topknot. The crown’s cold metal scratches his skull when she cinches it into place with a red ribbon and steps back, “There you are, all ready for the day, Sir.”

Zuko nods and pulls a smile to his face, “Thank you, Tashi.”

She beams, “You’re welcome, Sir. Is there anything else you need from me? Breakfast perhaps?”

He shakes his head, “No, that’s all. Thank you. I’ll head down to the kitchen later this morning. I need to speak with Chori about the banquet anyway.”

Tashi nods, smiles, and speeds towards the door, “Then I will leave you to your morning, Sir.”

Zuko returns her smile and watches her retreat with a dull ache at the loss of closeness. Tashi is the only one permitted to touch him outside of sparring and—while her touches are entirely perfuntory—he always looks forward to the feeling of someone else’s hands in his hair. He runs a finger over the edge of the leather holster on his right wrist. Heaves a sigh. He cannot afford to sink into wistful memories. He has a job to do, meetings to attend, a former war counsel to argue with. For the second time since waking, he wishes Uncle Iroh were with him, but his uncle is finally living his own life in Ba Sing Se, distant from the Fire Nation’s pain and chaos. Zuko does not dare reach out. How could he? Uncle Iroh’s letters are always filled with gleeful anecdotes about his employees, his customers, and his latest tea blends. White jade and hickory, according to his most recent letter. Zuko cannot pull his uncle from a life of happiness and drag him into Fire Nation politics. Zuko glances at the paperwork piled desk in the corner of his room. It has been two weeks since he wrote Iroh; he needs to send a letter by the end of the day—before Uncle Iroh begins to think something is off. Zuko resists the temptation to drag a hand through his hair. He will need to think of something nice to say, some silly story or anecdote of his own. His letters, although carefully devoid of anything that might come across as pleading or pained, need to be personal.

 _Enough dallying_. He forces what his hopes is a pleasant expression over his face and heads out of his bedroom, nodding to the guards stationed on either side of his door. Lin and Ezuk, his mind supplies. They fall into step behind him as he heads toward the war chamber. He may be fighting for peace, but he has not managed to find a way to replace Ozai’s advisors with his own. _Not yet_. He cannot convince himself to think of the war chamber as a place of peace until it is filled with people looking for peace. The weight of the knives strapped to his wrists is comforting. Azula would laugh at his paranoia.

_Poor Zuzu, your bending is so pathetic you can’t rely on it to protect you, can you? What makes you think your swordsmanship will be any better?_

He settles onto his cushion at the head of the war chamber’s long table with a wall of flames and the Firelord’s throne behind him. Azula is locked away on a private island with doctors and therapists thoroughly vetted by Uncle Iroh, Suki, Mai, and Ty Lee while he was unconscious with the remnants of her lightning still coursing through his limbs. She was gone when he woke and he has yet to convince himself to visit her. What if he makes her worse? What if she tries to kill him again? He might let her—he would let her. The thought is terrifying, he he knows he’s right. He draws a deep breath and lets it out slowly, just as Uncle Iroh taught. He cannot think of his sister. He cannot allow himself to think of what might happen the next time he sees his sister. Right now, he needs to focus on fixing the Fire Nation and convincing the war counsel to move past thoughts of a new war. He needs to prepare repatriations agreements and send ships with supplies to the Northern and Southern Water Tribes, the Earth Kingdom, Kyoshi Island… everywhere burned or otherwise mauled by his family.

Lin and Ezuk take positions on either side of the war chamber’s double doors, faces stoic. General Zei enters the room with short, purposeful strides, dip the lowest bow he can manage without entirely breaking decorum, and settles into his seat toward the end of the table. Zuko gives him a terse nod of acknowledgement and resigns himself to yet another day of long, ultimately pointless, arguments.

By the end of his third meeting, his fingers are smeared with ink, his head is pounding, and his bruised ribs are beginning to hurt with each indrawn breath. He lifts his hand to rub his forehead, before realizing that he is not alone. Commander Yu lingers at the side of the table, eyes respectfully directed at Zuko’s nose and chin set with displeasure, “Firelord Zuko, a moment?”

Zuko swallows a sigh, “Of course, Commander Yu.”

“Respectfully,” Yu spits out, “you can’t expect us to simply _pull our troops out_ of the Earth Kingdom. They have been there—keeping order—for decade now. Many of them have families, people who care about them, Earth Kingdom citizens who have learned to appreciate the policing that they do. In fact, all of the troops currently stationed in the Earth King are capable soldiers you are robbing of a chance to fight for glory and honor. You can easily give them permission to attack and they will—”

Zuko grits his teeth, “That’s enough, Commander Yu. The troops will be recalled.”

Yu’s hands clench into fists, “You are weak, Firelord Zuko. You are a child who learned nothing during your banishment. You do not have the mettle to run this country—nor the honor.”

Zuko tucks shaking hands into his sleeves, fingernails digging into his palms as he forces himself to his feet. “This conversation is over Commander Yu. I am the Firelord and my decision is final. I expect to hear your proposal at tomorrow’s meeting.” He meets Yu’s furious gaze and prays his legs will remain steady, “You are dismissed, Commander Yu.”

Yu’s fists smoke, “You will regret your decision, Firelord Zuko. Your weakness will destroy this country just like it destroyed your face.” He sweeps a shallow bow and turns on his heel to shove his way through the chamber doors. Zuko watches the doors slam closed behind him. His hands are numb. _Your weakness will destroy this country just like it destroyed your face._ The left side of his face burns. His is dully awareness of the numbness traveling up his forearms. _It was cruel and it was wrong_. Ozai should not have reached forward with flames in his hand. Should not have burned his son. _It was cruel and it was wrong_. Zuko wants to believe. O, he wants to believe. He wants to, but he cannot. If it was so wrong, why is he ashamed every time he catches sight of his own reflection?

Armor squeaks, “Firelord Zuko?” He yanks his gaze up from the floor to meet Lin’s gray eyes. She shifts her weight, “It’s midday, Sir.”

Zuko blinks. Midday. Lunch. Right. He never ate breakfast. Lin and Ezuk likely never had a chance to eat breakfast. They must be hungry. Zuko straightens and tries to smooth his face, “Of course.” His voice scratches. He clears his throat, ”Please. Lin. Ezuk. Get something to eat. Who has your afternoon shifts?”

Lin fixes him with an undiscernable expression, “Rina and Jiran, Sir.”

Zuko nods and ignores the growing feeling that his head is about to float off of his neck and stick somewhere between the ceiling beams, “Okay, good. Thank you.” Lin and Ezuk share a glance and Zuko tries to recall if he is missing something important—some social cue, something… He looks back and forth between them for a moment before clearing his throat again, “You may leave now. Rina and Jiran can meet me in the hall.” He tries for a teasing smile, “I think I can handle myself for a few minutes.”

Lin bows with Ezuk close behind, “Of course, Sir.”

They turn away, gently closing the war chambers double doors behind themselves. Zuko sucks in a gasping breath and blinks at the rush of air in his lungs. His head seems to drop right back into his neck with a headache forming at the back of his skull. He must have forgotten to breathe. That would explain the floaty feeling. He unclenches his hands, smoothes the front of his robes, and leaves the war chamber through the side entrance. Rina and Jiran meet him in the hall with a murmured chorus of: “Good afternoon, Firelord Zuko.”

Zuko forms a polite greeting in reply and studiously ignores his increasingly pounding headache. He glances at the light streaming in through the narrow windows periodically set along the main hall’s south-facing wall. It is past noon. He has another set of meetings in an hour and a mountain of paperwork to finish preparing beforehand. He heaves a sigh. He’ll hve to forego lunch if he wants to get everything done on time. He turns left toward his chambers, guards trailing behind. Rina and Jiran wait in the hallway while he ducks into his bedroom to sweep the papers neatly stacked on his desk into his arms and transport them across the hall to the much larger oak desk in his private office. He sinks into his desk chair, nods to Jiran when he reaches for the door to close Zuko in with his work, and finally gives in to the urge to massage his forehead.

The piles of paper dwarfing his desk seem to mock him. _Poor pathetic Zuzu. It’s halfway through the day and you already have a headache. Why don’t you give up and let me rule the country? I’d do a much better job, wouldn’t I?_ Zuko grits his teeth and rubs his forehead harder. His palms are still marked with indents from his fingernails. _Your weakness will destroy this country just like it destroyed your face._ He chokes back a sob. He cannot afford to cry. He has to prepare for the next meetings. He has to write his Uncle. He has to prove that he is capable—prove that his country is able to change. But he is tired. And alone. So very alone. He wants his Uncle. He wants a friend. He wants to converse with someone who is not paid to attend to him or set on pushing the Fire Nation into yet another war. He is alone and he wants all that he cannot have.

 _Poor Zuzu,_ Azula’s voice says, saccharine sweet.

He drops his hands from his forehead and reaches for the first trade agreement that needs to be reviewed. He has always been good at surviving. At persisting when no one wants him to. He will drag the Fire Nation into peace if he must, but he will force his country to change for the better. And, if he dies, so be it.

**Author's Note:**

> First attempt at fanfiction. I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. Any and all comments would be greatly appreciated.


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